


Noël nouvelet

by p1erregasly



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - boy choir, Christmas, Gen, Happy Ending, Light Angst, No Homophobia, Religious Conflict
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:00:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21545863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1erregasly/pseuds/p1erregasly
Summary: The boy sang for God only, fluent in the symbolic language of worship. In comparison, Pierre’s singing was mediocre at its best – a second-hand sacrifice like Cain of old.
Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Charles Leclerc
Comments: 7
Kudos: 27





	Noël nouvelet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thegreatgasly (londonbird)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/londonbird/gifts).

> Thank you for always listening to my fic ideas, Anna. This one is for you!
> 
> My favourite boy choir released a new Christmas CD (Libera Boy's Choir, go check them out, they're amazing), and it inspired me to write this. Please understand that this work in no way intends to stereotype or mock Catholicism or boy choirs.
> 
> Since I use some terminology in this fic, I've made a short list of explanations in the end notes.

_Tête d’ange_; that’s what they called him. An angelic face with a voice to match. 

The first part of that comparison was definitely true, Pierre thought. He took in the sight of the boy in the front pew while Monsieur Lévêque told them about the temporary addition to _les Petits Chanteurs de Rouen_, recruited from a prestigious Monegasque choir school specifically to fulfil the role of soloist. 

“… since our choir doesn’t have one,” Monsieur Lévêque added pointedly, and Pierre felt sick to his stomach when the director of music looked straight at him. Some of the other boys in the choir shot him not-so-subtle looks, and his cheeks burned with embarrassment and disgrace. He was supposed to be the soloist for this year’s Christmas concerts. The opportunity to become the choir’s golden boy was right there, but he’d ruined it all in the span of six months. In hindsight, he wished he’d worked harder during the countless one-on-one classes with Monsieur Lévêque, whose frustration at Pierre’s lack of progress grew more and more obvious each lesson. Somewhere halfway through the year, his patience had run out – _“So much talent, yet so little ambition. You’re wasting my time here, Gasly.”_ – and around Christmas time, Pierre was still one of agonisingly many regular boys in the choir despite the extra training, about to be upstaged by a nine-year-old.

Monsieur Lévêque looked back at the boy, who immediately pushed himself up from the pew. His chestnut hair bounced as he climbed the steps to the quire, his folded arms holding his black music folder loosely against his chest. Pierre looked for any signs of nervousness, but the boy’s hands were steady as he opened the folder, he stood upright with his shoulders back and he looked Monsieur Lévêque straight in the eye – something Pierre hadn’t dared to do ever since he’d failed so miserably earlier this year. 

After a few warm-up exercises during which Pierre needed several stern looks in his direction until he realised his fingers were restlessly wrapping themselves in the sleeves of his surplice, it was time to start practicing the pieces for the concert. Monsieur Lévêque raised his hands, holding the choir’s attention tightly in the air between them. Pierre concentrated on those hands, waited for them to move up and give their new soloist the cue to show them why he was the chosen one.

The boy’s song was clear as a bell as it echoed amongst the masonry and up to the rafters. Even with most of the notes in the lower register, his voice had the ever-so-precious, nearly indescribable ability to soar, filling the church with no effort. 

_“Noël nouvelet, Noël chantons ici  
Dévotes gens, crions a Dieu merci.”_

Pierre found this particular interpretation of the piece to be, in all possible ways, perfect. The boy rolled his r’s in the way Monsieur Lévêque had given up on trying to teach Pierre and he was entranced by the simple maturity, the virtuosity that came with hours of training. It was the representation of purity Pierre could never quite seem to capture with his voice, and he realised this must have been what Monsieur Lévêque was trying to tell him when he singled Pierre out at the end of one of their rehearsals a few months ago and blamed the tragic loss of beauty in liturgy on “boys like you”. Pierre hadn’t touched his guitar ever since. It was unholy, ill-fitted for spiritual worship even in the confinements of his own bedroom. 

_“Chantons Noël, pour le Roi nouvelet.  
Noël nouvelet, Noël chantons ici.”_

The end of the solo was laden with anticipation as Monsieur Lévêque allowed the boy to stretch the last note for as long as possible. Pierre tried to hold his breath for as long the lamenting tone lasted, disappointed to find the boy had a much bigger lung capacity despite his small stature. There was a pause that allowed the last of the echoes to die down, followed by something that was more than just the absence of noise. It was the music of silence: a sea of quiet filled with the omnipresent God. His presence brought into being a swift movement of the director’s hands, and the choir entered with a characteristic crescendo into the second verse. Different voices weaved together to form a simple yet reminiscing harmony, and the boy joined them with a grand descant floating above the melody. His voice sang for God only, fluent in the symbolic language of worship. In comparison, Pierre’s singing was mediocre at its best – a second-hand sacrifice like Cain of old. 

During most rehearsals, Pierre did his best not to pay too much attention to the boy, feeling sorry for himself and wishing he didn’t have to hear him sing so many times a week. He realised that they should offer the very best to God in their worship of Him, and yet he found it hard to accept that his singing so clearly didn’t reach that standard. He just wanted to pretend like their golden soloist wasn’t there, but it proved difficult with his red cassock standing out so clearly against the black ones of _les Petits Chanteurs_. 

The week leading up to Christmas it started to snow, which meant that Monsieur Lévêque locked the heavy wooden doors in between rehearsals. Pierre would never forget the lecture he got after he started a snowball fight last year, or the way the other boys had looked at him when Monsieur Lévêque told them Pierre was the reason they couldn’t go outside during rehearsal breaks in the winter. Most of the choir was sparsely scattered over several rows of pews, reading books or talking quietly, and Pierre’s intense desire to avoid them brought him back to their new soloist. The boy sat on the steps that separated the crossing and the quire, his arms crossed rigidly across his abdomen, fingers curling into his white surplice. Pierre thought it was odd at first, but then understood why when he joined the boy at the front of the church. The cold from the stones seeped into his toes and spread painfully through his legs, barely held back by the layers of clothing he was wearing. 

“I’m Pierre,” he introduced himself, pulling his legs up to his chest and wrapping his arms tightly around them.

The boy made eye contact for a second before he looked away again, but a smile spread across his face. His breath rose as vapour when he spoke.

“My name’s Charles.” 

“You sing really well.” 

Pierre opened a packet of mini biscuits he’d took from his bag as soon as the first half of rehearsal was over, double checking whether Monsieur Lévêque wasn’t looking before quickly stuffing a few of them in his mouth. The expression on Charles’ face as he looked up and down between Pierre and the biscuits in his hands could only be described as one of pure horror, and Pierre would’ve laughed had his mouth not been full with strawberry wafers.

“We still have rehearsal after this!” Charles gasped, a vibrant giggle escaping him when Pierre theatrically crammed another biscuit in his already full mouth. Pierre kept his hands cupped in front of his face as he chewed, and by the time he finished the ridiculous amount of food Charles was shaking with poorly suppressed laugher. The sound of his laugh was as beautiful as his singing voice, but that didn’t come as a surprise to Pierre.

The next time Pierre heard Charles sing was at the Christmas concert, where two millennia of tradition brought him closer to that heavenly realm than he had ever felt before. The light from the glowing candles was just bright enough for him to see Charles stand next to Monsieur Lévêque at the front of the quire, confident as ever as he filled the church with celestial sounds. Pierre closed his eyes instinctively, only opening them to respond to Monsieur Lévêque’s cue for him and the rest of the choir to join Charles in this theological work of art. Pierre sung fearlessly, encouraged by an uncharacteristic but unmistakable smile from the director when he reached the high note he’d been struggling with ever since the beginning. He found relief in the message of the Christmas carols, reminding him of God’s faithfulness in the past and of His future grace that was yet to come. He got the ultimate reward at the end of the service, though. It came in the form of a pat on the shoulder from Monsieur Lévêque and a beaming smile from Charles, who ensured Pierre he sang the best out of all the choir boys during the concert.

“Merry Christmas, Pierre,” Charles concluded, and for the first time that year, Pierre was convinced that wish would come true for him.

**Author's Note:**

> pew - a long bench with a back, placed in rows in the main part of a church  
quire - area of a church that provides seating for the clergy and church choir  
surplice - a loose white linen vestment, worn over a cassock i.a. by choristers  
cassock - a full-length garment worn i.a. by choristers
> 
> Thank you for reading! Feedback is welcome as always.


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